Tuesday, November 3, 2015

indian trees

The tree leans over our house
waiting for wind.
A scar runs deep in its skin
and memories are scattered around its base
in tiny fragments.
It wishes to
scream out its story,
but it has no mouth to do so.

It's family is around us,
standing among the other trees,
each leaning in its own way,
each scarred differently,
each having different memories of the past.

The past tells of these trees
- they cannot tell for themselves -
and how the people off the land
journeyed through and
stripped off
the covering of the trees,
eating the woody flesh.

There was no other food,
and they did not take
enough to kill the trees.
Only enough to leave scars.

It makes one realize
that sacrifices leave scars.
Pain leaves marks.
Suffering leaves wounds.
And sometimes
one must sacrifice
as the trees.

They did not choose to be the trees.
They did not choose to provide food
for the people of the land.
They did not choose to be scarred.


They did choose to not die
from the pain.
They chose to keep living;
to keep breathing;
to keep making shade and oxygen;
to keep being trees.

They did not fall
to the ground and
rot into the dirt. They hurt.
They bled their sap.
They felt the wind against bare
wood and winced at it's cold teeth.

But though they hurt,
they continued living
long enough
to lean
over our house.

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